


if only in my dreams

by MusicalLuna



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Aggressively Sad Steve Rogers, Airports, Avengers Family, Being stuck in an airport sucks, Christmas, Christmas Decorations, Cold Weather, Depression, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Marvel Cinematic Universe Phase One Compliant, Not Marvel Cinematic Universe Phase Two Compliant, POV Steve Rogers, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Steve Rogers Feels, Steve Rogers Has PTSD, Steve Rogers-centric, The Avengers Are Good Bros, and depression, at least mild inferences of PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-26
Updated: 2016-12-26
Packaged: 2018-09-12 06:06:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9058870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MusicalLuna/pseuds/MusicalLuna
Summary: It's Steve's first Christmas in the 21st century and he's stuck in Michigan airport.





	

 

The woman at the gate counter is brunette, her hair pulled back in a snug bun and her demeanor all business when Steve approaches, his flimsy paper boarding pass in hand.  
  
All he wants is to go back to New York. He doesn't care if he winds up at Stark Tower or his apartment in Brooklyn, hell, he'd even take his quarters in S.H.I.E.L.D. He just wants a hot shower and a bed somewhere familiar; after almost two weeks of being on the move, going city to city to shake hands with politicians, each leaving grease stains on his palm, Steve is finished. He's had enough of politics and fake people with even faker smiles. He's _tired._ It's been three days since he slept last and even the serum can only do so much when it's up against abuse like that.  
  
“Hi,” he says to the woman and flashes her a smile that he knows is wan at best. “I heard an announcement saying that the midnight flight to New York was canceled. I'd really like to get home as soon as possible—”  
  
“You and everyone else here,” the woman says and she's not being rude, just being straight with him. She glances up from her computer and her tired expression softens when she sees him.  
  
Steve shifts, squaring his shoulders, knowing the look is because he's in uniform. He came straight from meeting a slew of soldiers at the nearest base—because his flight had been delayed, he stayed an extra two hours, only to rush over for the next one to find it's been canceled, too.  
  
She glances at his name tag—there's no flash of recognition, which is a small blessing because Steve's not sure he could handle that with as much decorum as is expected from him right now—and then says with genuine remorse, "I'm sorry, Captain Rogers. As much as I'd like to get you home, every flight into New York is canceled for the next twenty-four hours. I'm sure you've heard about the blizzard."  
  
"Yeah," Steve sighs, and remembers at the last second to run his hand over his carefully groomed hair and not through it. "I was just hoping... Well, thanks anyway. Sorry to bother you."  
  
"It's no trouble," she says softly and he can feel her regretful gaze on his shoulders as he turns and hauls his duffel back out into the airport general where he drifts to a stop and blinks around, numb with exhaustion.

What now?

There are people scattered alone or in clusters around the terminal, all looking as exhausted and miserable as Steve feels, some still arguing with harassed-looking airport staff, some staring vacantly at the televisions showing late-night news reports, and some curled up with their heads pillowed on jackets or bags on the on the hard floors. There's a family a couple gates down, mom and dad sniping at each other in clipped tones.

All the shop fronts are dark, shuttered behind silver security gates, and the decorations look grim in light that's somehow too dim and too bright all at once. Steve finds himself squinting in the harsh fluorescent glare. Christmas music bounces around between glass and tile, hollow-sounding and taunting in its cheeriness and Steve remembers abruptly that it's probably Christmas Eve by now.

His first in the 21st century.

He's surrounded by people and he might as well be alone. He's never been alone on Christmas.

At the gate ahead of him, there's a guy getting worked up, voice starting to rise as his temper breaks. The fella behind the counter is starting to lose his cool, too.

Could be the most depressing place Steve's ever had to spend Christmas, and he spent one in a trench in France during the war. Then at least he'd had Dum Dum and Dino and Pinky to make him laugh, even though it hurt his half-frozen face to do it.

Steve shuffles over to sit in one of the rows of forlorn and empty seats because there's nowhere else for him to go, nothing else he can do, but sit here, wait, and try to get some sleep.

That's easier said than done.

Steve's slept in a lot of uncomfortable places; he's been wet, dirty, cold, hot, sick, and sweaty, and still managed to catch a few winks—even in rocky snowdrifts—but here, sitting alone in his stiff dress uniform, stranded in a Michigan airport after midnight on Christmas Eve, feeling the chill from the sub-zero temperatures seeping in through the windows, outside which the world fades into blackness like it's been swallowed up in a void, he can't do it.

His whole body aches with how tired he is, and he just can't do it.

The darkness outside the glass is a little too familiar and he closes his eyes against it, the cold sinking deeper the longer he sits, until he's seeing the shadowy interior of a plane that makes his insides shudder, a plane he couldn't step foot on now, no matter how desperate he is to get back to New York.

 _Steve,_ Peggy whispers in his ear and a lump catches in his throat.

Distantly, he can hear a mournful voice crooning, “ _I'll be home for Christmas...you can count on me...”_

 _Stop it,_ he tells himself. _Peggy's gone. You made it out of the ice. You did what you had to do._

He's not sure how much time has passed when he gives up trying to sleep and leans forward, elbows on his knees to scrub gritty eyes with the heels of his palms. He glances at the watch on his wrist, blinking to make its face readable and barely manages to swallow a groan when he realizes it's only been twenty minutes.

Twenty-four hours might as well be an eternity.

This could be an incredibly effective form of torture. Need information? Stick the guy in an airport after hours during the holidays and he'll be coughing up secrets in no time.

For awhile, Steve watches the news reports, not absorbing any of it. All he can think about are the increasingly desperate things he'd do to get out of here. He knows it's bad when he starts considering hiking to New York.

Eventually, he can't sit doing nothing for another second or he's going to lose his mind. He's standing, trying to ignore his uncontrollable shivering when the PA system catches his attention.

“...gers, please report to Gate 23, Captain Steve Rogers, to Gate 23.”

Steve frowns, but he hoists his bag onto his shoulder and heads for Gate 23. At the very least it's something to do.

Gate 23, it turns out, is quite a ways from where he was. He goes through two terminals, past all the gates for the larger planes, and down a flight of stairs to a tiny podium next to a pair of sliding glass doors with a plastic placard identifying it as Gate 23 right at the level of the tarmac. It's colder, too, and Steve shivers, pulling his arms in. The little parka-wearing man behind the podium looks up at his entrance—there's no one else here—and narrows his eyes. “Captain Steve Rogers?”

Steve nods, distracted, still looking around at the little waiting area. There are only about two dozen seats here and, wow, it's absolutely _freezing._

The man steps out and waves him forward. “Come on, your plane's here. It's not supposed to be so the Tower wants you to get going quick.”

Steve blinks at him. “I'm sorry, my plane?”

This gets him a look, like he's being particularly dense. “Yes. The Avengers Quinjet. Frequently seen in the sky over New York City. Pointy, gray, stealthy-looking thing. Ringing any bells?” When Steve just continues to stare with his mouth hanging open, the man starts to look suspicious. “You are _the_ Captain Rogers, aren't you? Captain-America Captain Rogers?”

“What? No. Yes, I mean, yes, I am, but— The Avengers jet is _here?_ ” Steve bends to the right, peering out into the darkness, swirling with snow.

“That is what I'm _saying_ ,” the man shoots at him and Steve drags his attention back. “I assume it's important since there's a six-state _blizzard_ and the airport is shut down, but they came for you _anyhow_ , so maybe you want to—”

Someone raps on the glass doors before Steve has time to process that, and the attendant makes a noise of exasperation and waves a hand. Steve turns to look and bouncing in through the opening doors with his shoulders up around his ears is Tony, grinning like a madman. He's wearing a hastily thrown on overcoat, his cheeks and ears red and wind-burned. A gust of snow-strewn wind follows him in and the man yelps and hastily closes the doors.

“Hey, Cap, what's the hold up? You ready to go or what?” Tony says, a little breathless, his eyes glittering with delight. It's taken awhile, but Steve's finally realized that Tony gets a kick out of surprising people and he's _good_ at it. “Control's not super happy with me at the moment since the country's pretty much shut down the airspace from here to Nova Scotia, but whatever, Barton's a badass, he can totally handle a little blizzard, especially with all the modifications I made to the jet. She's been _waiting_ for a chance to test her skills against something like this—”

“ _Tony_ ,” Steve cuts in, “what are you doing here?”

Tony raises an eyebrow and says, “Duh, Cap. We're here to pick you up.”

It's too good to be true and Steve's cold enough that he's not sure if he's hallucinating or not. He looks to the attendant to check and the man grumbles, “My nana is never going to believe Captain America is this slow on the uptake. I hope this is travel-fatigue.”

Tony barks with startled laughter and then points a finger at the guy, pulling on a serious expression. “Watch your mouth. I'm the only one that gets to insult the Captain.” Then he looks at Steve. “Did you _want_ to stay here for Christmas? I'm not getting the reaction I was expecting.”

“No!” Steve blurts, horrified by the idea of having to spend another minute here. “No. I'm ready. Let's go.”

Tony's smile returns, warm and twinkling, and he waves Steve forward with a tip of his head. “Come on then, Barton's getting impatient. Don't you have a coat? You're going to freeze.”

“I'm already freezing,” Steve mutters, but he winces when they step through the sliding doors together and are hit with a wall of breath-stealing, icy wind. Snowflakes lash Steve's cheeks as the two of them hurry across the tarmac, Tony driving him forward unnecessarily with one gloved hand in the small of his back.

They take the steps to the jet door two at a time and Tony slaps a button inside to close it up behind them, making an exaggerated noise and shaking the snow off of his shoulders.

Steve's face is so cold he can't feel his nose, the chill like blades against his skin.

“Got him, Legolas!” Tony calls, sweeping up to the doorway that leads to the cockpit. “Door's closed, we're all set. Let's get this show on the road!”

Peering into the cockpit around him, Steve manages a nod and a wave when Clint looks back over his shoulder and grins. “Hey, good to see you finally, Steve!” he calls. “Can't believe that's all you're wearing! It's fuckin' freezing out there!”

The plane vibrates beneath the soles of his shoes as it starts moving toward the runway and Tony swings around, beaming. He shrugs off his coat and tosses it over one of the seats, along with his scarf. “You look like you're halfway back to a Capsicle,” he says and gestures to the seats. “Go on, sit, you want some hot cocoa?”

Steve blinks at him, still unsure he's not dreaming. “Tony, not that I don't appreciate it, because I do, but what are you two doing here?”

Finally, Tony's movements slow down. He's quiet for a long moment, but when he turns around—with that mug of hot chocolate—he stares like Steve's being particularly stupid. “C'mon. It's your first Christmas after your big nap. We weren't gonna leave you in an _airport._ ”

Steve nods and drops his eyes, takes a sip of the cocoa to have something to do, surprised by how good it is. “Wow, this is great, thanks, Tony.” The heat of it immediately starts pushing out the iciness still lingering in his blood and he takes another long drink, savoring the way he can feel it all the way down.

“Good,” Tony says. “Drink up and then get some rest. You look like you're ready to keel over and everybody's waiting for us back at the Tower.”

“It'll be late, won't it?” Steve says, easing down in one of the seats. He has to close his eyes, biting his lip to smother a moan. He'd forgotten what comfort felt like.

“You say that like any of us keeps regular hours. Nah, we waited for you and everybody's excited to have you back again. Fury got a little big for his britches while you were off being the perfect poster boy.”

Steve pries his eyes back open. “Oh, yeah?”

“Oh, yeah,” Clint echoes. “He wants Tony to pal up with S.H.I.E.L.D. to build three more carriers.”

“He doesn't have to consult me,” Steve says, “Fury's the top of the chain of command.”

Tony stares at him and Clint, alarmingly, turns around to do the same. After nearly thirty seconds, Steve waves and says, “Don't you have to drive this thing?”

Clint snorts. “Can't see a damn thing out the window anyway, I've got this. Tony, talk some sense into him.”

Steve looks over and finds Tony leaned over the arm of his own seat, still staring intently. “Steve, I thought you had figured this out. As far as the Avengers are concerned, you _are_ the chain of command.”

Steve's eyebrows go up, skeptically. “Are you acknowledging there's a chain of command?”

“Hey,” Tony says, pointing a finger at him. “I can acknowledge the chain without necessarily adhering to it. It's called flexibility.”

“Ha!” Clint barks.

“You shut up, Barton!” Tony calls, but there's a smile playing around his mouth. Steve feels like he's missed out on something. These days it always seems like he's out of the loop. He looks back down at the cocoa in his hands and stifles a sigh. It doesn't seem so appealing anymore.

Steve sets the mug aside and Tony says, “Hey, what, you don't like your cocoa?”

“No, it's good, Tony, I'm just tired. I think I'll get some shut eye like you said.” As he leans the chair back, settling in, Steve catches Tony exchanging a heavy look with Clint. He closes his eyes and tries not to think about how his teammates have moved on to wordless communication without him.

\--

“...Steve...ey, Stevie... Time to wake up.”

It takes a moment for Steve to work his eyes open. There's a bright light overhead and he lifts a hand to block it out, squinting at the dark figure beneath it. His heart skips a beat when he sees a dark curl, then the figure leans back and his heart sinks.

Just for a second, he thought...

But it's just Tony, cocking his head and reaching to brush Steve's cheek with a finger. Steve shies away from it, leaning forward to cover his face and pull himself together. Tony clears his throat. “Hey, there, Sleeping Beauty. Sorry to wake you, but we're back.”

“Okay,” he says, when he's got control of his voice again. “Thanks, Tony.”

Tony lingers for a second, rocking from foot to foot. Then he says, “Yep,” and moves away.

 _Way to go, Rogers,_ Steve thinks.

He starts when someone slaps his thigh.

“Come on, Cap,” Clint says, “It's negative two out, it's gonna get cold in here fast. Let's get inside before we wind up reenacting your big sacrifice.” Clint doesn't wait for him to follow, just strides out, pulling a parka hood up over his head. Steve picks up his bag and ducks out after him.

The trip from the jet into the penthouse is mercifully short, but he's coated in snow by the time they get there, nevertheless. He pauses just inside to try and brush it off before he makes a mess and when he looks up, Natasha is beaming at him, approaching with her hands out. “Steve,” she says warmly, “It's good to have you back.”

He doesn't feel much like smiling, but he can't avoid it with her looking at him like that. He leans down to accept a kiss on the cheek, her hands warm on his elbows. “It's good to be back.”

“Can I take your bag?” Bruce asks, appearing in Natasha's wake and Steve blinks.

“Uh, sure, thanks, Bruce.”

Bruce smiles, strangely sympathetic, and eases the bag from Steve's grip. “You look like you've had a rough trip.”

“It could have been worse,” Steve says. Bruce's expression goes a little sadder.

Over to the left, Clint is stripping out of his parka, calling in a loud voice, “Thor! Bring me some of that cider! If I can't feel my face I want it to be because of alcohol, dammit!”

“Seconding that!” Tony yells and bounces up at Steve's side, eyes gleaming. “Okay, Steve, prepare yourself. No seriously, take a minute to prep yourself for what's coming. Take a few deep breaths, Bruce has got some weed somewhere if you want some—”

“I don't share my weed, Tony,” Bruce replies mildly as he reenters the room.

“God, you're selfish. It's Christmas, Bruce.”

Bruce gives him a prim look. “If you want some you can buy your own.”

Tony leans toward Steve and mutters, “Well, you know, he's not wrong.” Then he looks Steve up and down and says, “Are you ready?!”

Steve sighs. All he's ready for is a shower and a soft bed. “Sure, Tony.”

Tony frowns. "Your levels of enthusiasm tonight are not matching up with my estimates, but alllll right, I'll take it I guess. Here we go!"

Then Thor appears out of a softly glowing corridor and booms, "Steven!" hefting six tankards of something foamy, slopping a little onto the floor at his feet.

"Yes!" Clint exclaims. "Gimme!" He makes grabby hands and Steve returns a half-hearted smile in exchange for Thor's most welcoming.

"You return to us at last. You look weary, my friend, drink up!"

It seems rude to decline when everyone else is reaching for one, so he nods and gingerly accepts one of the tankards. "Thanks, Thor."

"You are most welcome," Thor replies with a tip of his head. "Have you been to see the—"

"NO!" Tony yells, spitting a mouthful of the drink over Steve's right hand. "EX-NAY ON THE ECORATIONS-DAY!"

Thor raises his hands in surrender. "My apologies, I will say no more."

Steve frowns. "What language was that? I've never heard--"

"Why don't we tell you in the other room?" Clint suggests.

But Steve is tired and miserable and sick and tired of being on the outside looking in. They're not telling him something and he's fed up. Before he can think better of it, he's said, "If you don't want to tell me, you can just say so."

Tony steps away from his side and then the five of them are looking at him like he's just said something really, truly awful. It hurts.

He rubs his eyes and holds out the tankard. "I'm sorry. I guess I'm not really in the mood tonight, guys. I'm just going to hit the sack, if you don't mind. I appreciate you coming for me."

Bruce wordlessly accepts his tankard and Steve nods gratefully. He steps back to go and Natasha's hand on his arm stops him. "Steve, I think you should come into the other room with us before you call it a night."

"Natasha," he starts, but she just keeps looking at him, unyielding as Peggy ever was, and he doesn't have it in him to fight. "Fine."

They're all quiet, subdued, as they herd him toward the next room over and he hates that he's brought them all down with his mood. He can't do anything right these days. Just before they step through the doorway where the glow is emanating from, Tony says quietly, "Hey, if you really don't like this, you don't have to stick around, Steve. Just—no obligations here, okay?"

Steve has no idea what that means, but he nods in agreement and steps through.

The glow is coming from what has to be hundreds of candles. Candelabras are set up on the tables next to the couch and on the kitchen counter, but the majority of the candles are nestled in the branches of a tree twice the size of anything Steve remembers seeing in his childhood. Ornaments are winking out from between the candles and on the coffee table there are two enormous bowls, one filled with cranberries, the other with popcorn. The rich, heady smell of pine fills his nose.

He looks again and doesn't see a single electric light.

There's a tower of presents under the tree, but they're wrapped in simple, hand-decorated butcher paper. Holly boughs and poinsettias have brightened up the fireplace.

"Okay," Tony starts, his voice vibrating with nerves, "I'm starting to think this was a really stupid idea, so if you hate it, that's totally fine, I mean, I've got like, a billion strings of electric lights in the basement and we can throw up some dancing Santas or whatever if this is hitting too close to home or whatever, but Bruce thought—"

" _We_ thought," Bruce corrects firmly.

"—that maybe you might like an old-fashioned Christmas, instead of the, you know, commercialized bullshit nightmare we've created. Or whatever."

"I must admit, though I do enjoy the brightly colored electronic displays, these decorations provide a sense of warmth they do not," Thor says. "I would be honored to partake of these traditions with you."

"And maybe...maybe you could tell us how your trip _really_ went?" Bruce says gently.

It strikes Steve then, that maybe it's not the future that can't accept him. These last few months the Avengers have all been making overtures of friendship and he—

Steve nods and wipes a hand over his mouth. The candles are starting to halo. "I...thank you. This is..." He swallows hard.

"Would you like your cider back?" Bruce asks, voice kind, and Steve flushes.

"Yes, please."

Bruce smiles as he returns it.

"Come on," Natasha says, taking hold of his arm. "I spent all day popping this popcorn, I want to see these strands made already!"

Steve laughs and it's a little wet sounding, but nobody calls him on it. If he'll let it happen, these people, this place could be his home.


End file.
